When you die, no one will cry,
No mourners watching the casket lie.
Just an old priest in a faded gown
Will mumble prayers and lay you down.
You pictured storms, a grieving crowd,
Rainfall weeping from every cloud.
But the sun shone bright, uncaring and high —
Not a single soul stopped to sigh.
Your mother won’t be there that day,
Not from grief, not lost in dismay.
She'll hear the news like a distant bell,
And whisper, “Now I can live as well.”
The world won’t pause, won’t skip a beat,
No mass despair, no empty street.
Nothing will shift, no grand goodbye —
Even your dorm won’t stay vacant long after you die.
New people will take your place,
With no idea who filled the space.
They’ll sleep in your bed, unknowing, unfazed,
Where your wrists once bled in a quiet daze.
Their children will run through the greasy hall,
Where you once drank, back against the wall.
They’ll eat from spoons still stained with smoke,
Not knowing the weight of the life you broke.
You’ll die on the way to the ER lights,
Drained of blood from long, quiet fights.
And in the file they’ll calmly note:
"Self-inflicted. No suicide note."
